dinsdag 12 mei 2015

Blog Tour & Giveaway ~ Black Balled by Andrea Smith and Eva LeNoir

Two dominant males, two worthy adversaries, in a business that takes no prisoners, will soon learn that fate refuses to be ignored . . .

My name is Troy Babilonia, but I'm best known as Babu, a renowned literary critic with my own online column. I'm followed by thousands! I'm a living god in the literary world. I have no filter, and for that, my flock of humble followers are forever grateful. If it weren't for me, they wouldn't know what to read. I have zero tolerance for the weak-minded attention seekers, nor do I have respect for the self-proclaimed geniuses of the Indie world. My advice to all Indie authors is to never break the cardinal rule in this cut-throat business. Ever.

My name is L. Blackburn and I'm an Indie author. My extraordinary genius was loved and worshiped throughout the literary world, until one egocentric critic tried to obliterate my career. It seems I broke some fucking "cardinal rule," and now I'm paying the price for it. But I don't plan on going down without a fight.

After all, when a predator goes after your cub, it's time to go for the throat--and maybe more...much more.

“Don’t!” I yell, my eyes narrowing as I stalk my prey, my
eyes flickering over Floyd’s hot pink shirt. I feel insulted and, for a moment,
I debate whether it’s the dandy that should be on the receiving end of my fist
or Larson. I quickly decide to strike the nearest prey first. My fist shoots
out and cuffs him good with an uppercut to the chin, sending him sprawling
backwards, where he unceremoniously lands on one of Larson’s black glass end
tables, knocking the lamp to the floor. The sound of glass shattering echoes
throughout the room, and I’m not done yet. I move towards him and, realizing
he’s still in a daze, I take the opportunity to snatch him up with both hands
fisting the collar of his shirt, and shove him against Larson.

“Is he what you want, Larson, huh? You want to fuck the
flamer here? Because I can clear out right now so that you and Pink Floyd can take up where you left
off before I so rudely interrupted your cozy soiree.”

Larson chuckles and I’m not fucking amused.

At all.

As I focus my gaze on Larson, I don’t catch the quick
movement of Floyd as he lunges at me with a growl. “My name is Lloyd,” he hisses, “And I believe I made
my position quite clear the last time we spoke. You’re not good enough for my Larson.”

And that’s when I deck him again. Hard. My fist meets his
perfectly straight nose, and the sound of crunching cartilage resounds just
before his shriek of pain.

“Sir!” he calls out, stumbling backwards, immediately tilting
his head upward and placing a palm over his bloodied nose so as not to allow
anything to stain his expensive pink shirt. “Sir,” he repeats, “Are you going
to permit this?”

Oh. Sir it is,
huh? What kind of fucking weirdness was Blackburn into with this dudette? I
turn to acknowledge Larson, who is standing there, muscular arms crossed and
his sexy drawstring pajama bottoms hanging low on his narrow hips. He’s shaking
his head, and I don’t miss the sexy grin.

My. Dick. Is. Hard.

His package is evident and his cock has made a bit of a tent
beneath those sweats. Not sure if that’s for me or if the sight of Pink Floyd’s
blood is getting him hard.

I watch, a bit confused, as Larson casually strolls over to
the kitchen counter and takes hold of his beer before making himself
comfortable on the bar stool. The room is silent but for the wheezing coming
from the damsel in distress over there. I’m guessing he’s uncomfortably numb in
the entire nose region.

“Let’s see,” my soon-to-be-ex-lover begins as he adjusts the
rapidly growing erection he is sporting, “Could you start over because the view
is much better from here?” Then he takes a sip of his beer and waves his hand
as though giving us permission to continue.

After that, I decide I’ve had enough of this crap and slam
the lid down, effectively cutting off the world and relishing the feeling of my
much-needed solitude.

Believe it or not, I’m the victim here. I have done absolutely
nothing wrong.

I’m tired.

I’m also horny.

As if my life isn’t already a bad sitcom, I hear the very
distinct sound of my mother’s ringtone. She insisted I use Madonna’s “Like a
Virgin” song specifically for her, saying that any artist who openly sang about
the Lord’s mother should be respected.

“Hey Ma, how are you?” One of two things could happen here.
Either she is bored and wants to tell me about her nurse, Rose, and all the
trouble her children cause around the neighborhood or…

“Don’t you try and change the subject, young man. Tell me,
did your father and I teach you how to steal?”

Oh sweet Jesus.

“Ma, seriously…”

“Answer the question, Larson. Did we?”

“No, Ma. You most certainly did not.” I feel like I’m ten
and just got caught stealing warm cookies from the cooling rack before Kennedy
got a chance to do it.

“That’s right, son. If your father were here—God rest his
soul—he would kick your behind so raw it would look like one of those monkeys.
I don’t know what they’re called…something about…”

See? I get that whole digression thing from her.

“A baboon, Ma.”

“That’s it. A baboon. If I could, Larson, I would do it for
him. Did you go to confession?”

“Ma, we’re not Catholic.”

“Nonsense. Your father was half Irish so you can still go to
church and get your conscience all cleared up.”

Oh yeah. I’m sure that
would go over well.A bisexual atheist
seeking forgiveness for a crime he did not commit. See?

Bad. Sitcom.

“Mother, I swear to you, I did not plagiarize. Come on, you
know me better than that, right?” I mean, she did give birth to me after all.
Shit, if my own mother doesn’t believe me, I’m fucked.

“Well, I don’t know…I never thought you’d be capable of
cutting off the hair from your sister’s Barbie and yet…you did.”

Holy shit! I was like
eight years old.

“Uhm…Ma? I have to go…the uhm…buzzer from the…uhm…thing
is…Oh, a tunnel…can’t hear you…bzzzzzz…sshhhh…love you…”

And like the coward I am, I hang up on my own mother.

New time low? Check.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a couple getting a bit
frisky at one end of the bar. The woman, Marie Antoinette from what I can
decipher from my position, has her hands travelling all over what must be
Cyrano de Bergerac if the size of his nose is any indication. I chuckle to
myself, wondering if the size of his nose is any indication to the length of
his cock. I have pondered that question on many occasions and no, one does not
equate the other, unfortunately.

I perch myself on a stool at the other end of the bar from
the groping couple. I can’t hear their conversation, but my overly active
imagination is already creating their dialogue from their body language alone.

Marie A. is willing and ready to spread her legs, but Cyrano
is more annoyed than turned on. His eyes are darting from one person to the
other, his minutely trembling fingers circling his glass in an attempt to calm
his nerves, maybe? In my mind, their conversation goes something like this:

“Take me back to the
room, Cyrano.”

“Get a grip, woman,
you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

“Fuck me, Cyrano.”

“Is this seat taken?”

Well, well, that is definitely not a voice borne from my
inner musings. “It is now, ma belle.” My French will be coming in handy
tonight. “Who do I have the honor of meeting?” The shit is just spewing from my
lips. This classically beautiful woman is not dressed in elegant clothing, but
rather is wearing trousers and a man’s coat.

“Je m’appelle George Sand, enchantee, Monseigneur le
Marquis.”

George Sand, of course. How the fuck did I miss that?

“Enchante, Mademoiselle Sand.”

Tonight, I’m taking her to my bed because any woman who
dresses up as George Sand is worth my attention.

Licking my lips at the prospect of fucking this woman, I
take her hand into my own and kiss the back all the while keeping my eyes
solely trained on hers. We spend more than an hour talking, drinking and
flirting shamelessly. George plays coy one minute and sexually cunning the
next. I’m not sure if I want to spank her or fuck her at this point. Maybe
both.

“Shall we take this party to my room, George?” I like
calling her by a man’s name. It suits my bisexual tendencies.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she answers with her light pink
lips pursing into a slight smirk.

Dr. Benedict removes his glasses, pulling a linen
handkerchief from his pocket, and gently wipes the lenses clean before putting
them back on. “It’s interesting that these last few sessions we’ve had together
seem to generate a bit of hostility you seem to have bottled up. Is there
anything new with the author you claim is cyber stalking you?”

“No, Doc, nothing new. He continues to send an occasional
suggestive email to my anonymous account like I’m interested in switching
sides,” I snap. “I’m not sure if I’m more offended by his vulgar and graphic suggestions, or the fact that
he’s obviously labeled me as ‘queer-bait’ in his depraved mind.”

“So, how have you responded to this…person?”

“Various ways, Doc.”

“Can you elaborate just a bit?”

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “The last one he sent
was extremely vile. He suggested I wanted to deep throat his cock, and there
was some mention of my ‘tight little virgin ass’ and what he might want to do
to it. He went too far.”

“Did you respond?”

“Well, hell yeah. I mean what the fuck?”

“How did you respond?”

And now I have to own up to my own over-the-top response to
L. Blackburn’s lewd and lascivious suggestions. Shit. “I sent him a digital
picture of my virgin bung hole,” I snap. “He’s probably jacking off to it as we
speak.”

A slight smile crosses Dr. B’s lips as he shakes his head at
my reply. “Babu, I need to ask you something here, and please don’t respond
with your usual knee-jerk reaction when I do.”

I nod.

“Have you considered the possibility that you’re
homophobic?”

“Homophobic? As in I don’t like queers?”

“No. In that you have a phobia…an innate fear of
homosexuality.”

“At three hundred bucks an hour, can we cut to the chase
here, Doc?”

“What I’m saying is that homophobia is classically an
internal response to one’s questioning of his or her own sexuality. The fear of
admission for whatever reason.”

I stand up, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair.
“You’re fucking fired.”

Andrea Smith is a USA Today Best-Selling Author.

An Ohio native, currently residing in southern Ohio. The Past Tense Future Perfect trilogy is Ms. Smith's first self-published work. Having previously been employed as an executive for a global corporation, Ms. Smith decided to leave the corporate world and pursue her life-long dream of writing fiction.

Ms. Smith's second series, The 'G-Man Series' consists of four novels and a novella. Her 'Limbo Series' is her first venture into a blend of romantic/suspense, mystery with steamy scenes and a paranormal edge.

Eva LeNoir grew up travelling with her parents to various countries in the world. Reading was her constant companion during her travels and her ability to adapt to different cultures fed her mind with endless possibilities. The characters swimming in her head are always from various horizons with a multitude of dreams and aspirations. However, all of these voices always have one thing in common: The women are strong and independent. A true believer in the female cause, Eva's wish is to portray the women in her books as the leaders. She sees them walking hand in hand with their partners and not be the sheepish followers of the male gender. But most of all, Eva LeNoir wants to offer her readers a moment of pleasure as they dive into the world of her mind's creation. Email: eva.lenoir.author@gmail.com